


Cause and Effect

by Sen (criminalsenzuri)



Category: AFK Arena (Video Game)
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/criminalsenzuri/pseuds/Sen
Summary: Silas is a shady criminal with the personality of an agitated viper; Izold is a morose has-been whose only solace lies at the bottom of a bottle.  The gods were surely laughing when fate caused their paths to intersect.
Kudos: 1





	Cause and Effect

**Author's Note:**

> Omfg I just wrote this entire spiel and it got deleted. Silas and Izold aren't graveborn yet so this story isn't as fucking weird as you might be thinking. Depending on how far forward I take it though, that may change. Heads may literally roll lmao. Also Izold is fucking DUMMY THICC in game and I'm not changing that so if you don't like big guys, you should question your taste in men (or stop reading this). Explicit rating is for future chapters; the first chapter's fairly tame but expect sex and violence respectively as the story unfolds. Last but not least, please leave a comment if you enjoy it<3

Silas looked as out of place in Ranhorn as a Hypogeon in the heavens. His traveling clothes, barely different from what he wore at home, made him look something between a pirate, a thief and a queen (the gay kind, not the royal kind) and his unruly, prematurely whitening hair paired with his pale, scarred face often caused people to mistake him for a graveborn. In this city that seemed to glow with its own holy light, his dubious, murky presence almost felt sacrilegious. Judging by the fearful yet malicious glares passersby were giving him, the feeling was mutual; everyone was exuding an aura that wordlessly told him “get the hell out of our town!” _Fucking pissants,_ he thought dourly, pulling the collar up on his coat as he walked, _if this were Rustport, I’d gouge out their eyes to teach them a lesson!_ Obviously, he didn’t like Ranhorn anymore than Ranhorn liked him – everything was just too damn _pristine_ , from the buildings (all white, every last one of them!) to the people (that one was a given), even down to the streets themselves which were clean enough to eat off. How did the inhabitants tolerate it? Surely it must be exhausting upholding such perfection all the time.

No matter, he didn’t plan on being here for very long – this trip was strictly for business. His precious alembic had shattered in a recent experiment and he needed another one _post haste_. Unfortunately, Rustport’s finer wares had all but dried up due to ongoing skirmishes along the trade route. So, he’d packed a bag, donned his boots with the least amount of heel and started walking. To call this journey inconvenient would be the biggest understatement of all time but he took it with a grain of salt. Bad luck was just part of his job – when you make your living selling deadly poisons and less-than-legal narcotics, karma’s bound to catch up with you.

He forced himself to stop daydreaming and analyze his surroundings. He was most definitely on the main road – the cobblestone street was wide enough to fit an entire platoon – but it was surprisingly devoid of activity. The amount of people walking around seemed rather sparse and upon closer inspection, he found all of the shops to be closed. A knot of frustration clenched in his throat when he saw a sign on a shop window that read “CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAY; WILL OPEN 9AM MONDAY.” Holiday? What fucking holiday?! And today was only Friday! An ungodly curse threatened to escape his lips but he bit it back, loathe to make this situation even worse by scaring the uptight locals.

_It’s fine. It’s fine!_ He told himself, grimacing. _I’ll just find an inn, get sauced and wait it out._ He had enough money to fuel a three-day bender and didn’t think twice about writing it off as a business expense. Enduring this city sober for the weekend was _not_ in his comfort zone. Placated by the decision, he smoothed back his hair and began searching for an inn. This was just a small hurdle and all he had to do to stumble over it was get stumbling drunk! _And people say alcohol is never a solution,_ he chuckled inwardly.

After teasing some directions out of a nonplussed local, he found himself in a somewhat more comfortable setting. Several blocks from the glorious main road existed something akin to a ghetto – stark white had sullied to varying shades of dingy gray, shop signs were weathered and the citizens were plainly dressed. _This must be where the laborers live,_ Silas thought, relaxing slightly. He refused to get his hopes up too much but he wondered if he’d actually find some people here who were down to earth enough to chat with him… some drinking buddies to help pass the time. He was prickly by nature but when he drank, something loosened up inside him and he forgot to be an asshole. His colleagues had even gone so far as to call him ‘pleasant to be around’ on such occasions, a shining commendation for someone as acerbic as himself.

Around a few more winding turns sat the inn, a dusty colored, two-story affair that looked like it had been around for centuries. Where wood had rotted, stone had been laid, giving it a mottled, calico appearance that Silas wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Somehow, he found it more impressive than the main road’s dazzling spires and sweeping balconies, perhaps because nothing in Rustport was built to last and this inn wore its age like a badge of honor. He squinted to parse the sign in the waning evening light, which swung slightly off-kilter from a wrought iron pole and read: YE OLDE TAVERN AND INN. Not very creative but he gave it points for its directness. No one was going to walk in here confused, that was for sure. He pushed on the heavy, oak door and strode inside.

He was immediately hit by a gust of warmth and noise. The place was packed to the gills – people were squeezed around the several big tables, shouting over each other and elaborating their tales with wild swings of their frothy mugs, a band was playing an absolute banger of a jig on a small stage in the back and a bunch of people were dancing feverishly in the cramped space around the band. It took Silas a moment to gather his thoughts and realize that oh yah, it was Friday night. This scene was no different from what you’d see in Rustport’s taverns… well, probably in taverns all over the realm. If there was one thing everyone had in common, it was the compulsion to drown out their work week in booze. He squeezed his way over to the crowded bar, trying not to knock around too many people with his huge backpack, and waved down the bartender. The man dismissively waved back, a ‘give me a moment, I’m very fucking busy’ wave, but immediately did a double-take of the oversized pack and hurried over.

“You need a room, I take it? How many nights?” The bartender was lanky and middle aged with shrewd, unwavering eyes peering from a sardonic, ebony face. Those eyes looked like they’d seen everything, including people even weirder than Silas, as his impatient gaze held not a single iota of curiosity.

“Three,” Silas replied hoarsely. He coughed into the crook of his coat sleeve and felt dust poof into his face from the folds of fabric. “Look, I know you’re busy but can someone draw me a bath?” he asked. “I’ll pay extra, I don’t care. Just name your price.” He hadn’t had one since he’d left Rustport, which was _way_ too long ago.

The bartender raised an eyebrow skeptically. “We have running water,” he tersely said.

“What’s that even mean? Yes, water runs, I suppose… now is it extra or not?” grated Silas, immediately becoming irritated. 

The bartender opened his mouth then shut it and worked his jaw. A few seconds later, he shook his head as if in resignation. “Just turn the knobs in the bathroom and water comes out. You’ll figure it out,” he explained dryly. “It’s seventy gold for three nights. You staying?”

Silas grumbled under his breath and fished out his coin purse. _Running water,_ he repeated inwardly. _Sounds like a load of horse shit._ He pulled out the seventy plus a few extra and eyed the vast array of liquor on the wall. “I’ll take a bottle of whiskey, too,” he said as he handed it over. “Whatever that’ll buy.”

As the bartender went to fetch the bottle and room key, Silas’ eyes flitted about the tavern, taking in some more details. To his left was a set of stairs; they led up and around to the second floor, which hung above the main hall. It was little more than a strip of walkway – guest rooms on one side, railing on the other – but he could see a few small tables and some comfortable looking chairs positioned here and there. Seeing as they were unoccupied, he surmised that they were for guests of the inn only. _That’s probably where I’ll be drinking tonight,_ he thought. As much as he wanted to join in the fray down here, he was unbelievably exhausted. Physical exertion of any kind was not his forte and the journey here had taken its toll. His legs hurt, his back hurt, even his frigging _ass_ hurt. 

“Up the stairs, second door,” the bartender stated, pushing the items into Silas’ hands. “Breakfast is at eight am. Enjoy your stay.”

Silas grunted a thanks of some sort then jostled his way past the crowd and up the stairs. He sorely wanted booze, a bath and a nap, hopefully in that order… in fact, he was so fog-brained that he didn’t even notice the pair of eyes that had been watching his every move since the moment he’d entered.

X

“Hey, I think you found your soulmate,” teased Izold’s drinking buddy. “A grumpy misfit with a scar almost as bad as yours… indeed, the stars have aligned!”

“Oh, piss off,” grumbled Izold, absently running a hand over his face and feeling the familiar grooves that crossed it. “I need a soulmate about as much as you need another beer. Isn’t it about time you went home?” He jostled his companion’s arm with his elbow, nearly knocking the poor sot off his bar stool. “If I remember correctly, your wife was _not_ pleased the last time you passed out here,” he chided.

“Oh I see, you’re trying to ditch me so you can have a decent crack at it,” the man chuckled. “Well fine, have it your way… far be it from me to stand in your way on such a _fateful night_.” He tossed back the rest of his beer and lurched to his feet, his face sweaty and slightly red. “Actually… now that you mention it, I guess I am just a tiny bit drunk,” he relented.

“Huh, is that so?” muttered Izold. “Alright, well make it home in one piece, will ya? If you kick the bucket, I’ll have to find some other fool to shoot the shit with.”

“I’m so moved,” sighed the man. “See you around, then.” He gave Izold a slap on his broad shoulder and stumbled off into the crowd. Unlike his companion, he had a family to go home to.

Now that he was alone, Izold let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. _A soulmate,_ he scoffed inwardly. _What nonsense!_ His friend had just been teasing him but he’d undoubtedly also noticed the way Izold couldn’t stop himself from staring at the stranger. Frankly, he was bewitched. Even with that heavy backpack, the stranger had moved with a sly sort of grace, as if he was used to skulking down shady alleys, yet… there was just a hint of a swagger to it too. An aloof sway of his hips that advertised… well… something Izold definitely wanted. He just knew – he knew! – that under all that traveling garb was a body to die for. No one moved like that unless they were confident with what they had. But it was more than just the swagger; _everything_ about the stranger had pleased Izold. The wild spikes of white-striped hair, the blood-red scar that splashed strikingly down his forehead and swept across his cheek, the flourish of trinkets, belts and patches that adorned his attire… yes, all of it was intriguing. And Izold wanted all of it to be his.

_By the gods, I’m such an asshole,_ he told himself, grimacing. _When did I get like this?_ Believe it or not, drooling over complete strangers was not a trait he’d always possessed. Back before his injury, the dynamic had been reversed – men and women alike would look upon him with admiration and lust as he marched down the promenade with his brigade, his magnificent suit of armor flashing in the sunlight. He’d reciprocated the feelings like any man in his prime would, to the point where his comrades started calling him a playboy. “You’d better settle down one of these days,” they’d advised. “If you ever get knocked around too hard on the battlefield, who’s going to care for you? It won’t be these hussies you always go after, that’s for sure.” Yet Izold had refused to listen. He had absolutely believed that he was invincible, that the day would never come when he’d need someone to lean on. But that day had come, sooner than he ever could’ve imagined. With one lucky slash of a Hypogeon blade, his future had been severed, along with most of the tendons in his leg. The medics had somehow managed to stitch the mess back into one piece but he would never achieve more than a pained, sorry limp again. 

The second he was out of the hospital, he’d pleaded with his superiors to let him keep fighting, using every talking point he could think of. “What if I joined the cavalry? I wouldn’t need my leg to fight on horseback, now would I?” To this, they pointed out that cavalry had to be even better on their feet than ground troops, as they had to take one hell of a fall and get up swinging if they were dismounted. “Okay, well… what about Thayne then? He’s still fighting and he lost a limb!” An arm, they replied. Not a leg. They then proceeded to remind him that Thayne wasn’t even fighting battles anyway, that he’d resigned himself to training new recruits. This had led to an extremely unpleasant exchange: Izold was offered a position training and his reply had been a rabid flurry of curses and an outstretched middle finger. Like hell he was going to teach other people to fight when _he_ was supposed to be at the center of the glory! After being roughly hauled away by some guards, he was told to kindly never step foot on the royal grounds again.

His exodus from everything he knew and loved hadn’t stopped there, either. Over the course of the next few years, the guild hall banned him for belligerently trying to force his name onto the mission roster, the Noble Tavern stopped serving him after he’d started a brawl (that he’d won, by the way!), even the barracks stopped letting him in, as the only reason he ever came by was to drunkenly stir up shit. Despite his barbaric appearance, he wasn’t stupid in the slightest – he knew the meaning of cause and effect, that every asinine action he took had a consequence. He just didn’t care. He’d lived his entire life around the idea of fighting and now that he couldn’t anymore, he balked at any idea of acceptance. If only that Hypogeon had struck him a little bit harder! At least then, he would’ve gone out honorably.

Now here he was, drowning his regrets in alcohol and waiting for something – anything! – to come along and blow him off course. The way things were going, he was sailing straight for a slow and lonely demise at the bottom of a bottle. He’d been a heavy drinker all his life but he’d always left it alone when on duty. Now he had no reason to stop, ever, and it was taking its toll. He imagined he had a few years, maybe five at the most, before the pain that occasionally pinched his side grew into full-blown liver failure. The symptoms would be vomiting and shitting blood, severe bloating and then probably sepsis. He’d seen more deaths than he could count on the battlefield and none were so gruesome and agonizing as this would be. No, he wasn’t going to let it get that far. There was no way! He’d go out swinging, even if it meant leaving Ranhorn in search of someone or something to battle to the death with.

“You gonna have another?” The bartender’s query snapped Izold to his senses, pulling him from his morbid, spiraling thoughts. He was doing that more and more often these days, letting his mind wander into truly hideous territory.

“Nah, I think I’ll head up for the night,” he replied. “I’m starting to doze off anyway.” He began to rise from his stool but a question simmered on his tongue. “Hey Jorah, how long did that stranger say he was staying?” he asked, unable to hold himself back.

Jorah’s face remained straight but Izold had a feeling he was smirking inwardly. “Three nights,” he stated. “He’s two rooms down from you so if he causes a ruckus, I doubt you’ll be bothered.”

“I see,” said Izold awkwardly. “Well, good night.” He gave Jorah a curt wave as he left his stool and limped off toward the stairs. Jorah was an old comrade in arms, also discharged for injury… although he hadn’t thrown a fit about it. No, it was the exact opposite – he’d started working here as soon as his wound had healed and pretty much ran the place now. If you drank here, you knew Jorah, that was all there was to it. He’d lost a leg just below the knee but wore his prosthetic with such ease, no one knew the difference. A far cry from Izold’s sorry ass! Nonetheless, that was how Izold came to live at a tavern in the poor end of town; Jorah had heard of his story and offered up the space rent free. In return, Izold did little jobs here and there fixing up the place and served as somewhat of a bouncer. All he did was sit on his stool and drink but everyone knew of his reputation well enough to mind their manners in his presence.

There was no sign of the stranger upstairs, just a shut door. Nonetheless, Izold was in good spirits, quite the opposite from mere moments earlier. He had three whole nights to give it his best shot… and really, the room situation couldn’t be any more beneficial to this cause. Perhaps his drinking buddy had been right about the stars aligning! He felt like he actually had a chance at this, however small. Unfortunately, his chance was going to have to wait for now. He couldn’t exactly go banging on the man’s door, asking for sex. So, with one last, longing look at room number three, he entered his own quarters and got ready for bed.

X

About half an hour after he’d laid his head on his pillow, the noise started. Not the noise from the tavern – that he was used to by now – but one much closer. And louder. It was a rhythmic, wet thumping coming from the room sandwiched between his and the stranger’s, punctuated by gross moans, grunts and even the occasional scream. Yes, some shit-faced couple were _really_ getting their money’s worth out of their bed and had zero compunctions about letting everyone around them know. Izold cursed under his breath and pressed the pillow against his ears. Shit like this was an inevitable downside to living here but it bothered him every single time. Why wouldn’t it? And these assholes were _especially_ loud.

A frenzied, out of synch rapping suddenly joined the thumps, followed by some hoarse shouts that Izold couldn’t quite decipher. The stranger, he realized, was knocking on the opposite wall and cussing the couple out. Izold propped himself up on one elbow and pressed his ear against the wall, wondering how this situation would play out.

“… PAID GOOD MONEY FOR THIS ROOM AND I WANT TO GET SOME FUCKING SLEEP!” This was the stranger, obviously, his voice raised to a shriek.

“WELL SO DID I AND I WANT TO BUST A NUT IN PEACE!” Whoever was doing the fucking sounded equally pissed off. “SO SHUT THE HELL UP!”

There was a brief pause in all noise before the stranger whacked the wall so hard, Izold wondered if he’d punched right through it. “TELL _ME_ TO SHUT UP?!?! I’LL SHUT YOU UP RIGHT FUCKING NOW, _PERMANANTLY!!!!_ ”

Izold tasted adrenaline in the back of his throat. In the blink of an eye, things had escalated from comical to murderous. He was fumbling on his clothes before he’d even gathered his thoughts – he was seasoned enough in the ways of violence to know the difference between an empty threat and a promise. He rushed for the door, ignoring his bum leg’s screams of protest, and burst into the hall. In almost perfect synch, the stranger’s door also swung open and out skulked the man himself, holding a knife that glistened menacingly in the dim light. His pale face was twisted into a mask of pure hate, contrasting his appearance to a comical degree, as he’d clearly just finished taking a bath. His damp hair stuck out at angles that surely defied gravity and he was clothed in little more than a slightly tattered robe. Izold opened his mouth to speak but before a word could come out, the middle door rattled and the knob twisted. Acting on instinct alone, he lunged in front of the door a fraction of a second before the stranger got to it. The menacing knife, which he now noticed was dripping with a purplish black poison, was right in front of his face now, pointed directly at his throat.

“Get the FUCK out of my way,” the stranger hissed. “This is none of your business.” His eyes bore coldly into Izold’s and the knife was poised perfectly still in his hand.

“Actually, I work here so it _is_ my business,” Izold replied in a low voice. The stranger’s unnervingly calm attitude towards murder would make a civilian piss their pants but Izold was, well… _Izold_. He even felt a grin threatening to slide over his lips; this was the most excitement he’d had in months! A bit more loudly, he added, “I can’t let you go murdering our customers just because they sound like a couple of _maulers in heat_.” This caused the door behind him to fruitlessly thump a few times as someone clearly smaller than him tried to break past his mass. “Knock it off,” he warned. “I’m sure whoever you’re screwing in there would rather you stay alive than die to prove your stupid manhood.”

“THAT FUCKER THREATENED ME,” the man behind the door howled. “LEMME AT HIM!!!”

“Can it,” snapped Izold. “If you come out here, I’ll knock you out myself!” He looked down at the stranger, whose eyes had narrowed into hateful slits. “And you can stop pointing that knife at me any time now,” he said. “What say you we go downstairs and toss back a few until these fools are done?”

The stranger’s eyes widened for a brief moment before narrowing even more, this time with suspicion. “Are you completely out of your mind?” he hissed. “Or is this situation fucking… _turning you on_ or something?? Why on earth would you possibly think-”

“Look, you’re clearly not from around here so I’m assuming you don’t know the laws,” Izold interjected. “If you were to cut down that man in there – or me, for that matter – you’d be convicted for murder and hung, _immediately_. Do you understand? I’m merely offering you a way out of this.”

Finally, the knife lowered, although the stranger’s eyes didn’t soften in the slightest. “Fine,” he spat, “but don’t think for a second that you’re doing me some favor. I still wish you’d just stayed in your fucking room.”

_If I’d done that, you’d be dead by sunrise, you fool,_ Izold wanted to say but with some effort, he held his tongue. He just wanted this fiasco, however exciting, to be behind him. “Well, go throw on some clothes, then,” he said instead. “I’ll go do the same. And you-” he directed his voice to the door, “-you have one hour to finish up. Understood?” A pause followed by a surly “yes,” met his ears. There. Done! Crisis averted! Despite the lives that had been at stake, Izold couldn’t help but feel like an exasperated teacher who’d just broken up a fight between a couple of stubborn little kids. _Well, whatever,_ he told himself. _My goal was to get drunk with this guy and see where it takes us… I just wasn’t planning on it happening quite like this!_ He watched the stranger retreat to his room and tempestuously slam the door shut before letting out a weary sigh and following suit. _What a queen,_ he mused. _I wonder if he’s a size queen, too. In that case, I’m definitely up his alley!_

X X X

Silas muttered and cursed as he threw on his clothes. “Fucking imbecile, can’t even mind his own business,” he raved. “Stupid fucking… barbarian looking motherfucker! Mouth breather! Shit-for-brains!” Nonetheless, the pants he struggled to fasten were his tightest pair, the boots (yes, he’d brought three pairs of boots; they were necessary items!!!) had enough heel that they absolutely didn’t pass as straight and he just couldn’t muster the willpower to button up his shirt any higher than mid chest. He’d been told on numerous occasions that he had terrible taste in men and he was just proving that point right now. That lumbering moron was _exactly_ his type: tall, strong and thick in all the right places. Biceps bigger than Silas’ head, a broad beer belly laid over slabs of muscle, a bulge between thighs like tree trunks that would make a lesser man faint with dread… every box was checked on his list, plus some. Silas loathed to admit it but the brute got extra credit for being tough as nails during that encounter. He hadn’t even _flinched_ at the knife held to his throat; in fact, Silas thought he’d seen a trace of a grin on those full lips! Oh yes, and then there were those full lips… and the scruff of a beard on his prominent jaw… and the scars slashed almost artistically across his face…

“Fucking… FUCK!” he all but howled. How could he be letting this happen?! After his last tumultuous relationship had crashed and burned, he’d sworn to himself: never again! No more romance, not even a one-night stand! If he got horny, he could just fuck his hand – after all, his hand wouldn’t beat the shit out of him, break his heart and steal his fucking money! His bad taste in men actually had nothing to do with physical traits. No, he simply had a knack for mistaking polished turds for gold, falling for men who appeared to be caring and capable but once things got serious, the veneer rubbed off to reveal one lazy, abusive thug after another. Four times he had done this to himself and four times he had told himself he was through. Yet here he was, hurriedly taming his hair with pomade until it was _just right_ in the mirror’s reflection, putting on earrings, slapping on a hint of makeup… it was like his body was doing these things completely on its own accord, getting itself ready for sex despite his brain disagreeing every step of the way.

Well, that was the reason right there – sex. It wasn’t even a possibility so much as a sealed fate. Despite the man’s gruff words and pragmatic excuse for the drinks, the look in those steel-grey eyes had been unmistakably hungry. Silas hadn’t been wearing much anyway but he might as well have been naked before that predatory leer, as if the bastard was already imagining him in any number of compromising positions. His reflection blushed and bit its lip as he did a little imagining of his own… what would it even feel like to be fucked by someone that big? He shook his head to clear the thoughts away. _Enough of that,_ he told himself. _You’re already taking too long!_ The clock on the wall told him it had only been five minutes but it was still undoubtedly longer than however many seconds his… companion, date, whatever he was… had taken to throw on his shoes, as that was all he’d been missing. He gave himself one last compulsory glance in the mirror then made for the door, stealing a sizeable gulp of whiskey on the way. The bottle was somehow half-empty already but his nerves were so on edge, he didn’t even feel it.

As predicted, the man was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and looking bored. His expression didn’t change upon seeing Silas but his eyes lit up with that same hungry glow, even stronger than before. Silas forced himself to scowl as he approached, worried that if he made any other expression, it would give him away. Even though he was probably going to wind up in this fool’s bed, there was no way he was going to come across as easy. “If waiting for me was that bad, you should’ve just gone on ahead,” he said sourly. “It wouldn’t exactly be difficult to find you.”

“I’m not bored, just tired from breaking up a fight,” the man chuckled. “Now why don’t you tell me your name? In return, I’ll overlook the jab about my size.”

“Silas. And it wasn’t a jab… I was just… stating the obvious.”

“Oh, I see. So I’m obviously a tub of lard, am I?”

Silas’ lips curled into a snarl. “I don’t know whether you’re fishing for compliments or trying to be funny but whatever it is, just stop,” he hissed. “Now tell me your name before I go with ‘tub of lard’ for the night!”

“My name’s Izold.” The bored expression broke into a wolfish grin. “All things considered, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Silas rolled his eyes and stalked past Izold down the first few steps. “You keep your pleasure to yourself,” he sneered. “And by the way, I hope you know you’re buying every last drop of booze I drink tonight.”

“Well, since I work here, that’s not much of a problem,” said Izold as he pushed away from the wall and began limping down the stairs behind his new acquaintance, whose ass happened to look absolutely _divine_ in those tight pants. And heels? Surely, Dura’s good fortune was shining upon him tonight! Reaching up to mid-calf and folding back down, they looked exactly like something a highwayman or pirate would wear… *except* for the back heel, which was at least two inches taller than anything he’d ever seen a man wear. He wondered if Silas had modified them himself or if perhaps, they were simply women’s shoes. Either way, it was sexy as all hell and Silas obviously knew it. If he was playing hard-to-get, he was skirting a little too close to the fire; Izold felt he’d lose his fucking mind if he was turned down after being teased _this_ badly.

Once they were both downstairs, Izold took the lead and made his way over to the bar, parting the crowd for Silas like some kind of messiah with the combination of his reputation and girth. Silas patiently trailed behind in the pocket of open space, slowing his steps to match the man’s pained, uneven gait. The disability barely even caught his attention… he’d seen far worse things than a bum leg in his years. They ordered – a huge stein of ale for Izold and an insanely strong cocktail dubbed ‘Ezizh’s Wrath’ for Silas – then made their way to the back of the tavern. The band had stopped playing high-energy music and now it was just a guy strumming a rather wistful melody on a lute. They sat themselves down at a table for two wedged in the corner, far enough from the surrounding bustle to feel somewhat private. Those tables upstairs would’ve been even better but if Silas heard _one_ more thump coming from that room, not even Izold would be able to stop him!

“Well, where are you from, anyway?” Izold’s eyes glittered with genuine interest in the soft light.

Silas held up a finger and tossed back a portion of his cocktail – it was vodka with a splash of absinthe and tasted almost dangerously bad – before answering. “Rustport,” he rasped, eyes watering. “I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”

“Ah,” Izold grunted. _That makes sense,_ he finished inwardly. Rustport was absolutely lawless, its leadership constantly shifting from one crime lord to another, so slitting someone’s throat probably wasn’t any bigger of a deal than slapping them. “Have you lived there your whole life?” he asked.

“No, but most of it,” replied Silas. “I moved there with my, uh, _found family_ when I was ten. Believe it or not, it was better than the place I’d come from… so…” He trailed off and coughed uncomfortably. “Let’s just leave it at that,” he muttered. “I doubt you want to hear my whole life story.”

Izold laughed and took a big drink of his ale. “You’d be surprised,” he admitted. “I don’t get to talk to many outsiders these days so I’m always up for a good story.”

Silas emitted a disdainful little ‘hmph’ and crossed his legs under the table. “Eh, maybe later,” he said dismissively. “I’m not nearly drunk enough yet to start blabbering about my past. What about you? You’re ex-military, I take it?” Everything about Izold’s appearance screamed ‘former soldier’: his short yet slightly shaggy haircut, his thick, solid muscles built up from years of using heavy weapons and armor, his many scars that traversed almost every inch of exposed flesh. Hell, even his beer belly added to the look; alcoholism was incredibly common among veterans and all those calories did indeed add up. Not that Silas minded, of course.

“I used to be in the Lightbearer army,” sighed Izold, “but as you can probably tell, I’ve been out of commission for quite some time now. I could regale you for hours on end with tales about my feats on the battlefield but I’ll spare you. I doubt you want your ear talked off.”

“I actually wouldn’t mind,” replied Silas. “I make weapons for a living so I’m always keen to hear about them in action…. just not for hours on end, if that’s possible.”

Izold blinked and tried to hide his surprise. Silas did _not_ look like a blacksmith – he had no muscle tone to speak of and soft looking hands. Paired with his rather prissy demeanor, he seemed like the kind of person who’d _passionately_ avoid hard labor. “What kind of weapons do you make?” he couldn’t help himself from asking.

A faint grin curved Silas’ lips as he took another drink – people always got confused when he brought this up and he relished in the hilarity of it. “Oh, all kinds,” he quipped. “My organization specializes in metallurgy but I’m personally more interested in biological augmentation.”

Izold rolled his eyes. “In layman’s terms,” he growled.

“Fine. I assist my colleagues in researching metals – namely, how to make them stronger and easier to work with – while using my spare time to develop a drug that will make _people_ stronger,” Silas explained, still grinning. “I also make and sell various potions and poisons to help fund my experiments. So… let’s just say, my profession is a bit all over the place but heavy on the science.” To call some of the things he made ‘potions’ was a bit misleading, as he literally had a corner of the illegal drug market pinned under his heel with his ability to refine narcotics… but Izold didn’t have to know _that_ much. Money was money in his opinion, no matter how it was earned.

“Huh,” murmured Izold. “Sounds… interesting?”

Silas laughed. “No, it doesn’t,” he chuckled. “Interesting to other experts in the field, perhaps, but to anyone else, it’s a load of gibberish.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I definitely think your tales of glory would pass the time better,” he insisted, “so go ahead and regale me.”

Minutes ticked by until an hour had passed, then two. Despite literally going on for hours on end, Izold was an excellent storyteller, describing his feats in such detail that Silas almost felt as if he was there on the battlefield, swinging the longsword himself. There was the time his scouting party had been ambushed by Maulers, who’d nearly backed them into a corner until a couple of powerful Wilders – a tiny old man and a woman with the lower body of a sheep – had unexpectedly come to their aid, healing their wounds and tripping up the enemy with roots and thorns. Or the time a heavy mist had rolled over them while on night patrol and a hoard of Graveborne had descended upon them. The leader had been a three-headed abomination who’d attacked with a grotesque, spinal cord whip and had summoned wickedly sharp bone spikes from the ground, impaling several of his men. He and his remaining patrol had managed to escape by the skin of their teeth… and that deformed monster still haunted his dreams from time to time. These were but a few of his experiences, the tip of the iceberg – he’d served for over a decade and not a single day had passed without some kind of action.

“After all that, you must be terribly bored,” pondered Silas, absently swirling his drink around in his cup. He’d switched from Ezizh’s Wrath to less blackout-inducing fare after the first round. Surprisingly enough, he was enjoying the night too much to warrant reducing himself to a stumbling mess.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Izold replied. “Everything’s just… _pointless_ now in comparison.” He downed the rest of his ale and slammed the stein down on the table. His alcohol tolerance was ridiculously high so, like Silas, he was feeling buzzed but not overly tipsy. “But enough of that. I’m in too good of a mood to get bogged down by an existential crisis!”

“Are you, now?” Silas mused. “And why’s that?”

“Well, I met someone who’s not sick of my stories, for one,” said Izold. “Everyone else in this tavern would rather go home _sober_ than hear me spout off again.”

Silas found it wasn’t hard to imagine his companion drunkenly retelling the same old story to some poor fool who just wanted to drink in peace. “What’s the other reason?” he pried. “You said ‘for one.’”

Izold made a ‘hmph’ sound and absently ran a hand over his stubbly beard. “Well…” he started. “How do I put this? Ah screw it, I’ve never been good with these kinds of words. You’re really hot, alright? Just… being able to _look_ at you has made my night.” He knew he wasn’t a poet but hopefully, after this many drinks, he didn’t have to be.

Silas felt a blush heat his cheeks and his heart thumped excitedly in his chest. He’d been upholding his hard-to-get demeanor all night, waiting for the man to finally break the ice, which had been getting thinner and thinner with each passing minute. ‘You’re really hot’ definitely wasn’t the most romantic thing he’d ever heard but then again, neither of them exactly had romance on their minds. He looked up from his drink to find Izold staring at him intently, awaiting a response. “Is that all you want to do?” he asked softly. “Just look?” Izold’s big legs had accidentally been bumping against his all night; he found a foot and rested his heel atop it, grinding down just a little with a mischievous grin.

“By the gods, man,” huffed Izold. “Those heels! I can’t even think straight when you’re-” his breath hitched in his throat when Silas’ foot slid up the inside of his leg and came to rest squarely on his crotch.

“When I’m what?” Silas teased, eyes glinting. “Stretching my legs? I just have a cramp after you’ve been hogging all the space down there.” He pressed down ever so slightly and bit his lip when something pressed back. In day-to-day life, he’d been described as nitpicky, overbearing and bossy… so it was only natural that during more carnal activities, he liked to hold the reins, so to speak. He wasn’t a full-out dominatrix or anything – whips and bondage gear had always seemed a little too self-indulgent – but if he could get a man to kneel and slobber for a taste of him, he was on cloud nine. After all, maintaining his body’s appearance in a place like Rustport was a feat in itself; some appreciation now and then was deserved!

“Bullshit,” Izold managed to pant. “I knew you were a tease but this-” he stifled a groan when the pressure subtly increased, “-this is ridiculous!” It was taking him every ounce of willpower he possessed not to start rocking his hips; he never would’ve imagined that he’d be so turned on by the sole of someone’s fucking _shoe_ against his cock. He reached down and, with iron determination, gently removed the shoe from his lap… although he couldn’t help but run his hand over Silas’ leather-clad calf in the process. Met with the younger (he _had_ to be younger to have that kind of body, right???) man’s displeased expression, he merely rolled his eyes. “We can do that upstairs as much you want _plus_ some,” he growled, his face hot, “but if you get me any harder, I’m going to be stuck sitting here until it goes down!” His cock matched the rest of his proportions and when it was fully erect, there was no hiding it.

“You’re no fun at all,” Silas grumped, although there a was hint of a smirk on his lips. “I suppose it’s for the better, though… if I’d kept going, you probably would’ve came in your pants. But I must confess, that would’ve been rather… _enjoyable_ to watch.” Izold panting and squirming in his seat, trying not to draw attention to himself as he was teased until he burst… yes, enjoyable was an understatement. But Silas had other things he wanted to do that were even better, so he let the matter rest. “Want to grab one last bottle and head upstairs?” he asked. “I think it’s time we got our revenge on those ‘maulers in heat’, as you put it.”

Izold grinned in a way that could only be described as evil. “Oh, I’ll have you screaming louder than that,” he stated. “I promise.”

X  
X  
X

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If anyone was wondering what Silas looks like for this story, I drew a pretty rad picture of him that can be found at [Cause and Effect character design by laurenloogie on DeviantArt](https://www.deviantart.com/laurenloogie/art/Cause-and-Effect-character-design-873129830?ga_submit_new=10%3A1615666173)


End file.
